


don't you know me? don't you know me?

by Azaphod



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaphod/pseuds/Azaphod
Summary: In retrospect, a part of him knew this was coming.When did that first thought of it come to him? That small, terrified inkling of fear worming its way amongst the background of static and overwhelming terror that made up their world turned wrong. Had it been when Jon stopped, freshly rejuvenated by the Beholding, a quiet exclamation of loss passing through his lips? Was that the start? Did it go back even further? Hours, days, years--how long?Did it matter?--(Somewhere, a tape recorder clicks on. A voice that is not a voice says, slowly;Statement of Martin Blackwood, taken, twisted, and wrenched live from subject.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77





	don't you know me? don't you know me?

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for; brief, sort of body horror/violence, not enough to warrant tagging, but still there. There's also a VERY brief mention/implication of Martin being trans and his fears toward passing.
> 
> (Also I threw this together very, very quickly after some Discord Discussions so it's a little rough!)

In retrospect, a part of him knew this was coming.

When did that first thought of it come to him? That small, terrified inkling of fear worming its way amongst the background of static and overwhelming terror that made up their world turned wrong. Had it been when Jon stopped, freshly rejuvenated by the Beholding, a quiet exclamation of loss passing through his lips? Was that the start? Did it go back even further? Hours, days, years-- _how long?_

Did it matter?

Jon had started forgetting. The memories they had built in the temporary safety of Salesa’s sanctuary, soft spun things of cotton sheets, warm tea passed between warm hands, of breathing and living a life stolen from them from the very beginning. He forgot how to smile the way he always did, crooked and kind and wonderful; he forgot that he always held Martin’s hand as they stepped from one domain of mindless horror to the next, he forgot to warn him when he needed to make a Statement; he forgot to check on Basira, he forgot they couldn’t just stay in one domain for hours-days-years, couldn’t just sit there and drink in the fear and pain and misery until his eyes glinted gold and unfamiliar, _satiated_. 

He forgot he didn’t want to destroy other avatars. Though usually, once they had turned to a smoldering heap of ruined remains, that sentiment came rushing back to him. 

He forgot Martin’s name, once. 

He apologized, of course. In that stammering, guilt ridden way of his, and Martin let him drop it, for now, with the silent promise that they would _talk_ about it. They just needed a moment, somewhere not screaming and shouting with the pain of several hundred-thousand-million people burning, drowning, _buried, mutilated--_

There were no such places anymore, he knew that. He was afraid, and he waited too long. 

The Archives stands to its full height, glorious and proud and resplendent. It turns its many eyes upon the world and the world _cowers_ under the Watcher’s gaze. The air is charged with static, spilling with voices, crying and shouting; muttering, rambling, sobbing out incomprehensibly, layered over and over in a cacophony of noise. It is the sound of Statements, he thinks, broken down to their core, raw fear laid bare. 

Martin Blackwood stands between The Archives and the Panopticon. He trembles and shakes, clenches his hands into tight fists at his sides, grime covered and crying. Grief wells in his chest and crawls up his throat, he chokes on it as he forces a word past his lips, barely even a whisper, “ _Jon_.”

But _of course_ the Watcher hears him, it can hear everything now. It looms in one long, smooth motion, its face so very close to his own. He thinks briefly, wildly, of a terrified statement giver from a lifetime ago. He’s all eyes _, he’s all eyes_. 

It turns its wretched gaze upon this miserable, lonely soul, and it _looks,_ and it _takes_. 

(Somewhere, a tape recorder clicks on. A voice that is not a voice says, slowly; _Statement of Martin Blackwood, taken, twisted, and wrenched live from subject_.) 

The thing is, Martin Blackwood has experienced a lot of fear in his life. It has crawled into his hollow body and weaved through his organs; until it covered all that there is, his childhood fears sitting in the seat of his chest like a festering growth. His terror toward his parents’ fights, the screaming he would hear through the walls; the cold, silent nights around a dinner table, the anger and hatred so palpable in the air around them it cut through his chest and sliced his small body to ribbons. 

The Watcher caresses a hand over the open wounds, and digs in, pulling tendrils of fear out of his ribcage. It tracks the years of constant displacement, moving from home to home to house to house, never knowing how long they would stay, would they have the money to keep the landlord at bay, his mother developing a deep chested, painful cough. 

It pulls the lies out next, the countless hours spent crafting the perfect façade all collected in coiling circles around his throat. The perfect _son_ , the perfect _poet_ , the perfect _employee_ \--as long as no one saw him for what he truly was. Pull back the curtain and see the beast beneath the fake masters’ degree and concerned smiles, hollow platitudes of tea and comfort. How long had he held that fear, waiting for someone to scream in his face and call him out as the fraud he was? Years spent hunched over his desk as his monster of a boss walked by and praised everyone on their work, on their _due diligence_ , sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he waited for the other shoe to drop and send him free falling.

_“Jon, J-” Martin croaks._

It hurts, _it hurts, it hurts_. It is holding him down with the stare of one hundred eyes and too many arms, wrapping a hand around his tongue and yanking the unsaid insecurities out under the watchful sky. Was he passing? Did anyone notice the acne? The dark circles, the split in his lip, the bloody, uneven beds of his nails? The ratty stubble under his nose and across his chin? Were they laughing to themselves or had they simply noticed how disgustingly human he looked? How _wrong?_

_The Archives watches as Martin crumples, knees hitting hard, unforgiving tar and muck--_

“--love, _please,_ it’s me--”

This all implied, of course, that a human being had ever wanted to look at him in the first place, that their eyes had not slid right off his cowering, ghostly form with distant indifference. When his mother died, and not once did her thoughts stray to him. 

It was probably better that way, he couldn’t _disappoint_ anyone like that, he could envelop himself in the white noise of his mind, distant and foggy, forgettable. No one would be _surprised_ , no one would _care_. It was better this way, watching the one he loved go out for drinks with strangers he did not know, to laugh and smile, to be merry and dance. 

But even that hadn’t been enough. He had tried to be clever, even with the terror on his lips and loneliness in his blood, and a knife in his hand, a living corpse before him. If he had used it, would it have changed anything? Would The Archives be the one looking back at him and not-- 

_\--and glass digs into his legs, worms under his skin, but he cannot bring himself to utter a scream. He feels like he’s being torn apart, like something has grabbed him from every possible angle and pulled, rending him into pieces--_

And once he finally had what he wanted, that brief respite; safety, a cottage in the highlands, gentle moors and a friendly village, what had he done? He _left_ , and the world ended, the Archivist became The Archives. He watched the one he loved warp and twist and hurt and kill, and he had helped; had jeered and encouraged with words of _justice_ and _righteous smiting_ fresh on his lips, the cold blooded Catholic in him rearing its ugly head.

 _“--I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,_ _Jon-_ -”

But most of all, he had been afraid of this. 

The Archives does not breathe, it does not blink, it doesn’t know how to anymore. It watches, and it takes, and it hurts. It gathers up the fear of Martin Blackwood and it _consumes_. Until there is nothing left to take, _until it doesn’t need him anymore._

His body finally goes limp, like the strings holding him upright had been swiftly cut he goes tumbling back. His eyes roll back in his head, but he does not feel the earth rush to meet him. Instead, something warm cradles the back of his neck, and he is lowered softly onto the bruised, scorched, and killed surface of the world. 

He forces an eye open, feeling raw, body flayed open like an exposed nerve, like a cavernous, gaping wound. 

( _Statement ends._ )

The Archives hovers above him, looking--it is _always_ looking. 

(... _Supplemental;_ )

It blinks, once, impossibly. The eyes that look back at him are soft brown one second, and in the next, they are not.

It has no mouth to speak; The Archives is a collection of knowledge, of marks and of fear, it has no interest in sharing. A tape recorder clicks on, its own whirr of static lost in the rush around them, but when a voice speaks, he hears it in crystal clear clarity. It is a voice he knows well, one he knows intimately, from his dreams to the waking world.

And it speaks simply, three words.

“ _He loved you._ ”

It loops. It loops on and on and on; _he loved you, he loved you, he loved you_. The words blurring together until they no longer hold any meaning, until they sound like gibberish. Whatever survived the ordeal of being consumed by The Archives fractures, snaps, and breaks into a thousand, unrepairable pieces. 

As The Archives drifts away, drawn to whatever fresh terror that has piqued its interest, toward the Panopticon, Martin holds the tape recorder close to his heart and weeps.

**Author's Note:**

> yall can find me on tumblr @godshaper


End file.
